


Not Like In the Movies

by irisbleufic



Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: 1950s, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Golden Age Hollywood, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-22 00:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8266573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: Home, Marty thought, leaving Doc to brood as he stalked back to the still-steaming, thankfully not-quite-wrecked DeLorean, is a way more complicated word than it used to be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to revisit 1955 one more time, to see how it feels to write it now a year and a half out from when I wrote my first piece in this fandom, _Time Bomb Town_ , which is also set in '55. I wanted to find a way to bring these full circle.

**November 12, 1955**

_Eighty-six, eighty-seven,_ Marty thought, glancing nervously at the speedometer as it ticked upward. Bad enough, that his pulse continued to skyrocket; worse still, that his fists clenched on the steering wheel had all but gone numb. He forced himself to focus, eyes fixed on the Town Theater straight ahead, but a flash of movement on the courthouse lawn caught his attention. 

“Doc!” Marty breathed in alarm, disbelieving as he watched his friend attempt to reconnect the cable— _damn_ , it had come undone—just as lightning struck the clock tower. His first instinct should have been to keep going.

Instead, he hit the brakes so hard that the car spun not once, not twice, but _three times_ before screeching to a halt. He sat still for a few seconds, shaking, before killing the overtaxed ignition. There wasn't any time to process the damage he'd done to the tires (pervasive smell of burnt rubber), or the fact that he'd almost slammed into the front entrance of the theater while a late showing of _The Atomic Kid_ was still underway.

“ _Doc_!” Marty shouted, rushing over to where the man in question lay sprawled on the grass.

The reconnected cable lay off to one side, at least, but Doc seemed slightly worse for wear. He blinked as Marty, breathless with relieved tears, dropped to his knees and shook him by the shoulder.

“Why on _earth_ did you stop the car?” Doc demanded frantically, clutching Marty's forearms in kind, at least able to sit up without assistance. “Do you even realize what you've _done_?”

“You were about to get struck by 1.21 jigawatts!” Marty replied, shaking him again, so glad to see him _alive_ that almost nothing else about the situation mattered. “D'you think I was gonna just drive by and let that happen? I don't think so, Doc!” he added, throwing his arms around him.

For the second time that night, Doc clapped Marty on the back. He was shaking, too, but nowhere near as badly as Marty. He let the embrace last far longer than Marty would have ever expected.

“Marty, as much as I appreciate your bold, selfless act of concern,” he said, voice low and grave, words muffled in Marty's hair, “I fear you may have just cost yourself any hope of returning to 1985.”

“Let's worry about that later, okay?” Marty said, knowing full well he'd pay later for pushing off the surge of anxiety in his chest. He slid an arm beneath Doc's, bracing Doc's full weight against him, helping Doc stagger to his feet. “You look kinda pale, and _what_ the—” He wiped at the dark smear on Doc's temple, holding his fingers out for Doc to inspect. “You're bleeding again, Doc.”

Doc blinked, idly touching the freshly de-scabbed cut on his forehead. “I must have knocked my head against the tree branch,” he said softly, now frowning at the unsightly evidence on his own fingertips.

Marty fished in Doc's coat pocket as they hobbled along, losing a few shreds of his letter in the process of drawing out Doc's handkerchief. “Here, put pressure on it,” he said. “Let's get you back in the car. I'll follow you in the DeLorean, assuming the thing still runs. I, _ah_...did a number on it.”

“You'd surely hit eighty-eight,” Doc lamented, letting Marty open the driver's side door for him. “You would've _made_ it.” He shook his head violently as Marty dumped him in the front seat of the Packard, still holding his handkerchief to the wound. “I just can't fathom why you—”

“Shut up and get ready to drive,” Marty instructed him, swallowing, willing himself to sound braver than he felt. “Don't do anything till you see me get the DeLorean running. If I can't, I'll come back.”

Doc nodded, gripping the steering wheel with his free hand. “Quickly. I can't afford more trouble.”

“Guess we already spent your fifty bucks, huh?” Marty asked. “Don't look so shocked. I have eyes.”

Emmett set his gaze straight head just as Marty had attempted to do minutes earlier. “Let's go home.”

 _Home_ , Marty thought, leaving Doc to brood as he stalked back to the still-steaming, thankfully not-quite-wrecked DeLorean, _is a way more complicated word than it used to be._

Miraculously, the DeLorean made it back to 1640 Riverside Drive without dying on them. Stowing it in the garage was a solemn affair; drawing the tarp back over it felt tantamount to stitching up a shroud. Marty was no expert on outdated funerary rites, but he'd heard one too many stories about burials at sea from Grandpa Artie, who'd been in the Navy way back in the— _shit_. Pretty recently.

“You go on upstairs and use the bathroom,” Doc sighed, fetching his housecoat or dressing-gown or whatever-it-was from over the back of the armchair. “Get cleaned up. I'll use the one down here.”

“I'm not tired yet, Doc,” Marty admitted, attempting to follow him, “and I need to make sure you're—”

For the second time that week, the downstairs-bathroom door got slammed in Marty's face. “I'm fine!”

“Yeah right,” Marty muttered under his breath, trailing upstairs, fighting subdued panic the whole way. It took very little effort to strip out of every article of his 1985 clothing except for his underwear and red t-shirt. Uncertain where the bathrobe Doc had loaned him for the week had gotten off to, Marty snagged a pair of Doc's boxers out of the drawers in which he'd nosed around and put those on, too.

By the time he made it back downstairs, Doc was sprawled in the red armchair in much the same way he'd sprawled there in despair on the night of Marty's arrival. He appeared to have stripped down to his t-shirt and underthings, too, although the dressing-gown mostly covered that fact. He was holding a balled-up washcloth to his forehead in lieu of the handkerchief, grimacing at the ceiling.

“I'd head to bed if I were you, Future Boy,” he sighed gruffly. “There's nothing left to see here.”

“There's your forehead, for one thing,” said Marty, irritably, marching straight over to the chair, because at least that gave him a sense of purpose. “Why don't you lemme see how it's doing?”

Doc shrugged, not meeting Marty's gaze. “There are bandages and antiseptic in the bathroom cupboard,” he said reluctantly, removing the washcloth, wrinkling his nose at the blood-stain.

“Give me that,” Marty snapped, grabbing the ruined thing, yanking it out of Doc's grasp. He marched into the bathroom, in the first fit of temper he'd felt toward Doc in, well, _ever_ , and pitched the washcloth in the sink. He rummaged in the cabinet, snagging the rusty tin of Band-Aids and battered bottle of witch hazel. “I swear to God you must do most of your growing up in the thirty years between now and when I originally met you, because you're behaving—” Marty cut himself off when he saw Doc's expression had shifted from petulant to forlorn. “Aw, c'mon. I'm sorry. Sit up.”

Doc did as he was told, his expression questioning as Marty propped the tin and the bottle near Doc's shoulder on the ample arm of the chair. “You're hardly the one who owes an apology when it was _my_ hare-brained scheme that failed us,” he said, watching Marty brace his hands on the arms of the chair. “Marty, I think this would be easier if you— _oh_ ,” he finished, eyes comically wide.

“The lighting's bad enough in here as it is,” Marty teased, settling in Doc's lap without any regard for how irregular it might seem to _this_ version of his friend. Back in 1985, physical contact had never been an issue, up to and including falling asleep all over each other on Doc's sofa during late-night movie marathons. This Doc, on the other hand, had scarcely gotten the hang of _hugging_.

“Of course,” Doc said, stiffening as Marty shifted his weight forward, fetching the supplies from where he'd left them. “How silly of me. You couldn't have done this as thoroughly from a different angle.”

 _Yeah, and anything else you don't know won't hurt you, I guess,_ Marty thought, swiping Doc's handkerchief off the side-table while he unscrewed the witch hazel one-handed. He needed contact, reassurance, _warmth_ , and this sure as hell looked like the only way he could get it right now. Doc back in 1985, _his_ Doc, would've thought nothing of holding Marty until the threat of completely fucking _losing his shit_ had passed. He set the cap on the arm of the chair, wetting the wadded up handkerchief with some witch hazel, and then poised it just above Doc's forehead.

“This is gonna sting, Doc,” he said, sucking in his breath, applying the cloth as quickly as he could.

Difficult, not to squeeze his eyes shut just as Doc did the same, wincing at the feel of it. Marty dabbed the cut several times over, until Doc's claw-like grip on the arms of the chair had eased off. Wetting several more fresh spots on the handkerchief, he made a few cautious passes until Doc's eyes fluttered open. Doc looked numb, resigned to his fate, so Marty brushed at the cut with a dry corner to finish.

“I don't want you using your toilet for a stepping-stool from here on out,” he warned. “Is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” Doc replied, tone somewhat strained, although his grip on the arms of the chair eased up further as Marty peeled open a Band-Aid. “At any rate, it looks as if you'll be here a while to stop me.”

Marty nodded, glancing away as he placed the bandage-pad squarely over the cut, using his thumbs to smooth down the adhesive. “We've got all day tomorrow to worry about that,” he said, inspecting his handiwork, confident that the latest urge to start hyperventilating had passed. “There.”

Unexpectedly, Doc placed one reassuring hand over Marty's, keeping Marty's fingers where they rested lightly against the Band-Aid. “You're right, Marty,” he said. “We did our best. _You_ did your best. Hell, the chances of that gambit working were only ever one in...” He trailed off, meeting Marty's concerned gaze. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “I must have frightened you beyond reason.”

“I'm not as scared now,” Marty admitted, letting his lips brush against Doc's forehead before letting his own rest against it in sheer exhaustion. “I'll get to sleep, anyway. That counts for something.”

Doc nodded, shifting until Marty had no choice but to wedge himself awkwardly into the chair beside him. He put an arm around Marty without having to be told, letting Marty curl into him with a sigh.

“We can't stay here all night,” he said eventually, voice thick with however long they'd been drowsing.

“Okay,” Marty yawned, reluctantly extracting himself from Doc's embrace. “See you in the morning.”


	2. Chapter 2

**November 13, 1955**

Marty woke to the sound of Doc's dozen or so clocks down the hall, wondering how the hell Doc could put up with that every single morning, and in his _bedroom_ , no less. Marty had been exposed to the phenomenon for several years by the time they'd hit 1985, and he hadn't understood it any more then than he did now, while the accrual of said clocks was clearly still in its infancy.

Once he'd gotten his heart-rate back down to normal, Marty slipped out of bed, found his borrowed bathrobe balled up inside the closet, and made his way quietly down the hall. Doc's door was open a fraction, so he peered inside as he'd done on a handful of other mornings, expecting he might have to nudge Doc awake. The bed was empty, sheets and comforter askew. 

Hesitantly, Marty stepped inside, approaching with one hand outstretched before he consciously realized what he was doing. Doc's pillowcase was worn, impossibly soft to the touch. He picked up the pillow, hugging it to his chest. The pillowcase was just as soft against his cheek; it smelled faintly of Doc's pragmatic shampoo and predictable cologne. He breathed in, closing his eyes.

“Marty!” Doc called from downstairs, impressively loud as ever. “I hate to wake you, but breakfast—”

“Coming, Doc!” Marty shouted back, dropping the pillow where he'd found it. “Don't burn anything!”

On arrival in the kitchen, Marty discovered that Doc had, miraculously, produced plates of eggs, bacon, and pancakes without so much as a scorch-mark. Copernicus had already started in on the bacon shards Doc had emptied from the pan into his bowl. Marty sat down across from Doc at the table, meeting Doc's anxious expression with a smile. There were even glasses of orange juice.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Doc asked, slicing eagerly into his pancakes. “Dig in, Marty.”

“You won't always be the wow-a-guy-with-home-cooking type, you know,” said Marty, using his fork to cut off a sliver of egg-white, grinning at him. “By 1985, you're all about the Burger King drive-in.”

Doc chewed his food, shrugging. “I have absolutely no idea what that means. Food chain, I presume?”

“Yeah, it's like...” Marty swallowed his egg and went in for another bite. “The burger joints you've got now, only drive-through service gets a _lot_ more efficient. I think Burger King exists now, but it's still this...tiny franchise down in Florida or somewhere, just like McDonald's started small.”

“Do the two end up as major competitors?” Doc asked with bright curiosity. “Doesn't take a genius to predict _that_ , granted. The wave of the future is unquestionably convenience.” He cut the rest of his pancake into neat squares.

Marty nodded, sipping his juice. “Yup. Couldn't really say which is be—Doc, you _squeezed_ this?”

Doc's guilty expression was so endearing that Marty wished he was near enough to touch. “I got up early and went to the market for fresh oranges. They're not something I tend to keep around.”

“I really appreciate it, Doc,” Marty replied, settling for reaching across the table to pat Doc's hand.

Doc shrugged, forcing a dismissive puff of air past his lips. “I owed you an apology for last night.”

“If breakfast is how you apologize, then I'm gonna screw up experiments more often,” Marty joked, but part of him instantly regretted it. He lowered his eyes, picking up a piece of bacon. “I didn't mean...”

Doc's fingertips brushing the back of Marty's hand made him jump. “I'm glad _one_ of us has a sense of humor,” said Doc, “because I'm beginning to feel guilty about seeing your presence as a silver lining.”

Marty glanced up in relief, sliver of bacon clenched between his teeth. “Why? It's a silver lining as far as I'm concerned, too,” Marty muttered, shoving the rest in his mouth before it crumbled. “It means I'm not dead,” he added, and then, silently, _and neither are you_.

Doc nodded in fervent agreement, gulping his remaining juice. “That lightning-strike was a doozy.”

 _I'm glad you tore up that letter,_ Marty thought. _I'm gonna have to get the rest from your coat._

They finished breakfast in a more relaxed state than the one in which they'd begun. Marty collected the dishes and carted them to the sink, but Doc pushed him out of the way at the last second, adamantly _refusing_ to let him wash up.

While Doc did that, Marty took the opportunity to creep into the living room and clear Doc's pocket. He wasn't sure what to do with the handful of stiff, grainy fragments, short of stowing them under the sofa because Doc had begun to natter from the kitchen.

“...so I was thinking that might be our best plan of attack,” Doc finished, tone hopeful. “Marty?”

“You're the doc, Doc!” Marty called, drying his damp palms on the bathrobe. “Whatever you say!”

“I wouldn't bother getting cleaned up,” Doc continued, strolling into the living room with a dish towel still in hand. “We're likely to end up filthy, but what else is new? Maybe throw some clothes on.”

Momentarily, Marty's mind ran with the phrase, inserting it in an _entirely_ different context. He wondered how it would sound to hear that, wrapped in Doc's bedclothes and fever-warm skin, with his cheek pressed into the softness of Doc's pillow. He opened his mouth, but didn't make a sound.

“Right,” he croaked several seconds on, chagrined at Doc's puzzled expression. “Yeah, I'm on it.”

Turning up in the garage ten minutes later in '50s jeans with his black-and-white checkered shirt unbuttoned lower than usual and no t-shirt probably wasn't the most intelligent or subtle move Marty had ever made, but it was clear subtle wasn't going to cut it. Doc was oblivious.

 _Besides_ , he thought, approaching Doc, who was already bent under the hood of the DeLorean with tools in hand, _the you I left behind in 1985 wasn't much more with-it; my work would've been cut out for me anyway_. “Anything I can do to help, Doc, or do you just need me to hold stuff?”

“If you give me five more minutes,” said Doc, brow knit in concentration as he used a wrench to batten some loose part or another down _hard_ , “I'll have you hop in the driver's seat to test the ignition and the time-circuits' connection to the flux capacitor simultaneously. The circuits suffered...”

Marty tuned out the rest of that statement, anxiously peering around Doc's shoulder. “At least it starts?”

“You know as well as I do that driving functionality alone isn't sufficient,” Doc sighed, wiping his forehead on the back of his hand, leaving a grease-smudge close to the bandage. “Go give it a try.”

“Jeez, Doc,” Marty said, dashing to get inside the vehicle. “Whatever you did, that was awfully fast.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” replied Doc, chewing at his lip, “but the problem is...specific.”

Marty nodded, slotting the key into the DeLorean's ignition. “I spun it pretty hard. Shit's knocked loose?”

“ _Serious_ shit,” agreed Doc, solemnly. “As soon as you've started up the engine, I need you to turn on the circuits. Normally, I know you'd do it in the opposite order, but I've had to rig—”

“Using the engine to kick-start the circuits?” Marty asked, fingers poised and ready. “Good thinking!”

No sooner had he turned the key and flipped the switch than something beneath the hood _exploded_.

Doc's alarmed shout rang in Marty's ears, more frightening than the sensation of hitting the concrete floor as he dove out of the car for cover. Marty crawled around to the right front tire, groping desperately for Doc, who'd hit the floor at about the same moment. He was shaking.

“Well,” said Doc, coughing, hugging Marty instinctively to his chest as they lay side-by-side against the garage door, “that didn't go as I'd hoped.” Another spasm wracked him, so Marty held him tighter. “Should've known better than to—”

“Don't tell me,” Marty sighed, burying his face in Doc's shoulder, still trembling. “It's busted for sure?”

“Our problems were significant enough when we missed the lightning,” Doc said, rubbing Marty's back in slow, increasingly confident strokes. “Now? Marty, I...” He pressed his lips to the top of Marty's head, as if to bite back something he couldn't bear to say. “They're _incalculable_.”

“That's what I thought,” Marty mumbled, giving Doc a squeeze. “I'm glad you're okay. I thought...”

Doc's mouth was still pressed to the top of Marty's head as he spoke, sending a shiver through them both. “You were always in more danger by far,” he choked, “and I never gave it a second thought.”

“Last night, yeah, sure,” Marty agreed, ashamed of how easy it was to melt against Doc, to pretend that they weren't lost and terrified in the face of yet another failure. “But right now? We've faced worse.”

Doc let go of Marty shakily, crawling out from between him and the garage door. Marty got up on his knees, panting slightly, shirt undecorously open given the angle at which he was leaning.

“You ought to go get cleaned up now,” Doc said, getting to his feet, expression slightly dazed as his eyes flicked from where Marty's knees met the concrete up to Marty's throat. “We're finished.”

Marty nodded, self-consciously buttoning himself up. “Yeah, Doc. I get it. At least for now.”

They spent the rest of the day in awkward silence, Doc flitting from book to book, periodical to periodical, _anything_ on which he could lay his hands that might be relevant. Meanwhile, Marty listlessly switched television channels, unable to settle on anything because he'd _seen_ all of it.

Around nine o'clock in the evening, Doc yawned and let the book in his lap fall carelessly to the floor.

Marty turned down the television and scooted to the far end of the sofa so that he could lean closer to Doc where he sat in the armchair, concerned. “Kinda been a long day, hasn't it? You should turn in.”

He set his hand on Doc's forearm, holding his breath for the split-second it took Doc's fingers to find his.

“If it's all the same,” said Doc, rising, somehow maintaining a hold on Marty's hand, “I'll stay down here till you're ready to head upstairs. There's no sense in reading. These books of mine are useless.”

Marty scooted over on the couch, pulse skyrocketing as Doc settled beside him and comfortably settled their hands together against the cushion. “TV's kind of useless, too, Doc. There's nothing good on.”

“It's all new to me,” Doc said, holding Marty still so he wouldn't get up to change the channel again. “I'll do my best to provide commentary that might help you see it in a different light, how's that?”

Marty curled into Doc's side, impulsively using the leverage of their entwined fingers to wrap Doc's arm around his shoulders. “As long as I get to do _this_ ,” he said, “you've got yourself a deal.”

Doc nodded, seeming relaxed, tucking Marty's head beneath his chin. “We could get out of the house tomorrow,” he suggested, grazing his fingertips along Marty's forearm. “Maybe take in a movie.”

 _Are you asking me out, Doc?_ was what Marty wanted to say, but instead, he just nodded.


	3. Chapter 3

**November 14, 1955**

Listless, Marty leaned against the passenger-side window as Doc drove them from the Brown Estate into town. He was distracted by the gorgeous orchestration, which he didn't recognize, emanating from the Packard's radio. It sounded like an old-school Broadway overture.

“Hey, Doc?” he asked, idly picking at a loose thread on one of the other pairs of trousers Doc had procured for him when he'd first arrived. “What's this we're listening to? Is this an instrumental version of something that's got words? The cadence of the strings makes me think of—”

“ _Autumn Leaves_ ,” Doc said, tapping his finger against the steering wheel. “Roger Williams. Isn't it something? Very popular song right now. It goes...” Doc frowned, lost in recollection, before starting to hum. “The falling leaves drift by the window,” he sang, voice rough, but competent, “the autumn leaves of red and gold. I see your lips, the summer kisses, the sunburned hand I used to hold. Since you went away, the days grow long, and soon I'll hear old winter's song.” He stopped, clearing his throat self-consciously. “You get the idea.”

“I'm not sure why, but I didn't know you could carry a tune,” Marty said, somewhere between stunned and even more hopelessly stuck on the guy than he already was. “Take a piece of advice, okay? You should sing _way_ more often.”

Doc nodded, raising his eyebrows, considering the proposition. “Only when it's the two of us. How's that?” He tore out of the stop-light a little too fast for Marty's liking, shooting Marty an apologetic sidelong glance. “So what'll it be, Future Boy? _Cattle Queen of Montana_ at the Essex, or _The Atomic Kid_ at the Town? Our local movie-houses definitely know how to drum up business.”

“What were you saying the other night,” Marty remarked, “about _Atomic Kid_ being out for a while now, that it was so popular the Town brought it back for an encore? Maybe we should see that. It would fill a gap in my cultural education.”

“It came out last year,” Doc confirmed, already scanning the street for parking. “It's been a real hit.”

“Have you seen it yet?” Marty asked, pointing to an empty space on his side. “If you have, we can—”

“ _Nonsense_ ,” said Doc, screeching into the spot, pleased with himself. “I enjoyed it a great deal.”

“Fine by me if you don't mind seeing it again, I guess,” Marty said, hurriedly unbuckling his seatbelt.

Admission at the Town Theater was a dollar for both of them to get in. Doc paid it before Marty could produce the dollar bill he'd been given by George the other day in exchange for raking the lawn while he folded laundry. Marty was half convinced George had hired him to do it just to shut him up, because that's what his dad had _never_ hesitated to do when Marty was just a kid.

“It's on me,” said Doc, gallantly, indicating that that Marty should enter ahead of him.

 _Guess maybe this_ is _kind of a date_ , Marty thought, cursing the warm twinge in his gut.

Doc found them seats near the back, explaining that he didn't like the crowds that tended to cluster near the middle. Marty nodded, settling immediately into the seat to Doc's left. Their elbows bumped.

“Looks like we've gotten here just in time for the news reel,” Marty whispered, leaning into Doc.

“Seems to me you know a lot more about this decade than you let on,” Doc said, grinning at him.

“ _Shhh_ ,” Marty hissed, fighting the urge to laugh, finding their noses so close that Doc's breath tickled his lips. “You need to keep it down. The point of sitting at the back's _not_ to draw attention to yourself.”

“I don't know about where you come from, _when_ you come from,” amended Doc, in undisguised amusement, “but when I was a kid, the point of sitting at the back also had something to do with. _Well_. I'm sure I don't have to explain it.”

“Get out of town,” Marty said, letting his eyes drift toward the screen, the flutter below his stomach more insistent. “Looks like there's a lot I don't know. D'you mean to tell me you were putting the moves on every girl from here to—”

“Oh, _hardly_ ,” Doc scoffed, drawing Marty's attention back from the dull headlines. “I was lucky if a girl wanted to _speak_ to me, much less do something like _that_. Hell, I was lucky if _anyone_ wanted so much as the time of day. I wasn't exactly the most popular guy around town.”

“You're the most popular guy in my world right now, if that means anything,” said Marty, cursing himself for having absolutely _no filter whatsoever_. “And I saw those pictures in your old family album. Don't sell yourself short, Doc.”

Doc ran a self-conscious hand through his hair as the news-reel ended. “I don't look like that anymore.”

“You look like _you_ , Doc,” Marty reassured him, leaning closer this time. “You're still the same sharp-dressing, dapper-as-hell redhead in my book, and that's final.” He swallowed, watching a faint blush spread across Doc's cheeks as the opening credits cast silvery light on them both.

“That...” Doc cleared his throat just like he'd done in the car, patting Marty's hand. “Means a lot.”

 _Goddamn it_ , thought Marty, with fierce determination, lacing his fingers firmly with Doc's.

They sat like that for the first twenty minutes of the film at _least_ : hand-in-hand and absolutely petrified like a pair of shy, awkward teenagers. Marty supposed he had little room to dispute his own accusation even though he was only about seven months off his eighteenth birthday; he regarded himself as an adult at this stage, and he was grateful that his parents had for the most part, too.

The guys bickering on the screen—Blix Waterberry and a guy called Stan—appeared to be uranium prospectors with no idea that their Geiger counter was blipping off the charts because they'd wandered onto a nuclear testing site. Marty swallowed as Stan called Blix _baby_ in another affectionate bout of ribbing. They were all over each other, and there'd even been a Liberace reference.

“My God,” said Doc, gesturing at the screen, “it's been _years_ since I've visited that kind of landscape.”

“What,” Marty teased, squeezing Doc's hand companionably, “did you go walking in the desert a lot?”

Doc sighed, eyes fixed on Marty instead of on the screen. “Marty, I was at Los Alamos in forty-three.”

Marty searched his memory for something, _anything_ from history class, but the only thing he knew about Los Alamos was that it was somewhere in New Mexico. “Was there some kind of lab out there?”

Doc made a pained sound, but he nodded in the affirmative. “Not just any lab. You don't remember hearing about it?” he asked, drawing Marty's attention away from Blix and Stan blundering their way into the test-site's model house. “Does _Manhattan Project_ mean anything to you?”

Funny thing, memory, when the spinning settles, like a slot-machine hitting sevens. Marty gaped.

“Jeez,” he breathed, ignoring Mickey Rooney's slapstick, high-pitched screams as Blix and one of the dummies got knocked into a stove by Stan's overzealous slamming of the kitchen door. “You worked on the _bomb_?”

Doc attempted to disengage his hand from Marty's, but Marty wouldn't let him. He looked miserable.

“This isn't how I would have chosen to tell you, Marty,” he sighed, brushing his thumb against Marty's wrist in silent apology, “but the topic at hand seems relevant, and makes _light_ of it, too. I thought it would help.”

“If you think I'm gonna blame you for all the damage that research did,” Marty said, “then guess again. Sure, war's horrible, but you thought you were working for the greater good, right? Doc, you're not...”

They stared at the screen in distracted horror as Stan drove away from the house while the detonation countdown approached zero-hour. Blix was still inside, making a peanut-butter and sardine sandwich.

“If you were about to say I'm not the bad guy,” said Doc, softly, after several minutes in which military personnel in the perimeter trench urged Stan out of the car, “then I suggest that you reconsider.”

“That's a crock of shit, and you know it,” Marty hissed, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen as Stan struggled to get out of the trench when he realized what was about to happen. Marty had already been through something exactly like this; he knew what it was to look on in horror as somebody you loved beyond reason, with the last of your breath and strength, went fatally under fire.

“This is a comedy,” said Doc, mildly, as the explosion went off and Stan sobbed. “Blix survives the—”

“Doesn't matter,” Marty gasped, leaning forward in his seat, struggling for breath. “Doc. _Doc_ , I'm—”

Doc had an arm around him in a heartbeat, helping Marty to his feet. “Oh,” he said, ushering Marty into the aisle as quickly as he could, almost causing them to stumble. “Let's get you some air!”

The prim, hatted cashier dealt them disapproving glances the longer they stood in the lobby. Marty could already feel the constriction in his lungs easing, as Doc hadn't let go of him for so much as a second since they'd walked out of the film. Doc's embrace grounded him.

“Maybe we oughta go outside,” he said weakly, tugging at Doc's sleeve. “It'll be cooler, anyway.”

“We don't have to go back inside,” Doc said, ushering him calmly out into the sidewalk. “We can always come back to see it another night. When you're ready,” he added soothingly. “ _If_ you're ready. Maybe it's just not meant to be.”

Marty nodded gratefully, gulping lungfuls of chilly air tinged with leaf-mold. “Thanks, Doc.”

“I shouldn't have suggested we leave the house,” said Doc, ruefully, steering Marty across the street to where they'd parked. He opened the passenger-side door for Marty, gingerly helping him inside. “Too soon.”

“Too soon after _what_?” Marty demanded as Doc slid into the driver's seat. “After yesterday? Look, I hate to break it to you, but I gunned that thing to eighty-eight _right after seeing you get shot by terrorists_.” Doc's blank look caught Marty off guard. An accidental admission was an accidental admission; he might as well commit to it. “In 1985, Doc. You tricked them out of some plutonium. For the DeLorean. That's how you got it running. You built a _fake_ bomb this time, got it? You're the good guy. Come on, Doc. Just... _say_ something.”

“Oh, Marty,” Doc sighed, gripping the steering wheel. He sagged into it, staring ahead. “Was that...”

“What was in the letter? You bet it was,” Marty replied, closing his eyes as he drew another deliberate lungful. He fumbled for the radio switch as Doc started up the car, turning the dial until uncannily familiar music blared.

“Some odds,” Doc murmured, maneuvering them into the street with care. “Same song as before.”

“Yeah,” Marty agreed, opening his eyes. He felt the chords stretch thin between them, delicate as gold thread. “So, ah, about what I said on the way here...” He reached for Doc's right hand, which had fallen from the steering wheel into Doc's lap. “Sing the rest of it for me? Only if you—”

“But I miss you most of all, my darling,” Doc sang, slightly off-cadence from the instrumentation, “when autumn leaves start to fall. I see your lips, the summer kisses, the sunburned hand I used to hold.” He paused, taking an unsteady breath, his eyes drifting down to study their clasped hands before refocusing on the road. “Since you went away, the days grow long...”

“That's great, Doc,” Marty murmured, stroking Doc's wrist just like Doc had stroked his in the theater.

“You get the idea,” replied Doc, distantly, turning up the driveway. “The last two lines are repetition.”

“I know you would've missed me, Doc,” said Marty, filling the sudden lull as Doc killed the engine.

Doc nodded in agreement, staring down at their hands, rubbing Marty's knuckles even as Marty continued to stroke his wrist. “It petrifies me,” he said, struggling for a moment, as if searching for the right words. “The thought of thirty years without...”

“It wouldn't have been fair,” said Marty, knowing exactly what he meant to say. “It would've been instantaneous for me, but then—how would I have had any guarantee you'd survive? You tore up my letter. Unless you would've changed—”

“Marty, _don't_ ,” Doc whispered, thumping the steering wheel with his free hand. “Under these irregular circumstances, it's nearly _impossible_ for me to know what decision I would've made. For you, Marty, it's easy! The future's a foregone conclusion.”

“I already know what decision I would've made,” Marty replied, “and I'm about to make it again.”

What happened next was the polar opposite of the prom situation, their microcosm gone topsy-turvy in more ways than one. Marty slid across the seat, grateful of the lack of _any_ central-well obstruction, leaning forward into Doc just as Doc turned his head to regard Marty in confusion.

“ _Please_ , Doc,” Marty said, their lips scarcely a breath apart, waiting to see if Doc would pull away.

“Should've known what I was getting into the minute I let you in the door,” said Doc, and kissed him.

If Lorraine's ill-timed kiss had gone on for too long, then this one didn't last _nearly_ long enough.

“Hey,” said Marty, laughing shakily, pecking Doc's cheek as they parted. “Wasn't _that_ bad, was it?”

Doc opened the driver's side door, giving Marty an inscrutable look over his shoulder. “Not tonight.”

Marty nodded in defeat, drumming his fingers against the car-seat, opening his own door this time.


	4. Chapter 4

**November 17, 1955**

As first dates went, with regard to Monday evening, Marty was convinced he'd completely blown it.

Most of Tuesday and Wednesday passed in relative silence. Aside from having their habitual breakfast together, he and Doc spent most of their time sequestered in separate parts of the house. Marty stole sci-fi novels from Doc's shelves and shut himself away in the guest bedroom, emerging only for food or to check if anything interesting was on television. When they crossed paths in the kitchen or in the living room, Doc was reserved, but cordial. Marty didn't know what to make of it.

By chance, they ended up on the sofa Wednesday evening for the same program. Marty tested the water by scooting as close as he dared, and he even experienced a surge of hope when Doc stretched his arm across the back of the sofa and let his fingertips graze Marty's shoulder. Fifteen minutes later, he excused himself to go continue his hell-bent tinkering with the DeLorean. After another fifteen minutes, Marty turned off the television and retreated to his room. He could think of better things to do.

On Thursday morning, Marty woke up in terrible spirits. On top of feeling restless enough to crawl out of his skin, Doc's up-swing in work on the DeLorean was, for some inexplicable reason, pissing him off. He missed his family and friends back in 1985, sure, but this kind of reminder right on the heels of a tangible, _desirable_ relationship shift with Doc felt like a slap in the face.

When Marty wandered into the kitchen in nothing but a securely-belted bathrobe, Doc was there with Copernicus in one of the chairs next to him at the table. He looked up from his newspaper and coffee, apologetic, setting the paper aside before getting to his feet.

Copernicus whined, his tail thumping. Marty had grown so fond of the dog that it almost felt like betraying Einstein.

“Forgive me, Marty,” said Doc, rushing to the refrigerator, “but I wasn't hungry just yet, and I didn't know how long you'd sleep.” He rummaged with the same frantic energy that Marty had always found so painfully endearing, producing a carton of eggs and what was left of the orange juice.

“You don't have to cook for me _every_ day, Doc,” Marty insisted, wandering over to take the items off Doc's hands, noting with no small amount of satisfaction that Doc froze like a deer in the headlights. “I had to learn how to cook a bunch of basic stuff at home in, y'know, my original timeline. Mom wasn't always great about it if she had a hangover. Guess I didn't have the time to find out if—”

 _If it's any different now_ , Marty thought, cutting himself off as Doc's expression turned to worried guilt. No wonder the guy was working so hard, as often as Marty talked about home. “Hey, I know,” he said brightly, pushing off the lingering prickle of irritation. “How about I cook for _you_?” He waved at the table, indicating Doc should sit back down. “Seriously. I've got it.”

Doc gave a reluctant nod and did as he was told, falling instantly into scratching behind Copernicus's ears. “I'd appreciate it,” he said, resuming his coffee, eyes following Marty to the stove. “Thank you. My efforts at preparing breakfast when I'm alone are...pitiful at best.”

 _So I got your attention,_ Marty thought, finding it difficult not to feel smug. Yeah, the robe covered him from collarbone to calves, but he wasn't above letting _just_ enough of his chest show. Strangely charming, though, that Doc seemed just as likely to fixate on his eyes or his hair or the movement of his hands. He wished he could fry eggs and watch Doc at the same time, but no dice.

While the eggs were in progress, he fetched glasses and poured them both some juice. He carried Doc's over to the table just in time to catch Doc glancing furtively back down at his paper. Marty wanted to lean across the table and touch his face, kiss his forehead, _anything_ , but it was more progress than he'd made in the last forty-eight hours combined. Best not to push it. 

Once there were plates with enough eggs and bacon to go around (Copernicus got the lion's share of Doc's bacon), the two of them settled into comfortable chatter. Doc ranted about the difficulties he was having with repairs, while Marty continually changed the subject by reminding Doc of how much he loved the early sci-fi pieces by Edgar Allan Poe. Up until the phone rang, it seemed to be working.

“I'd better get that,” Doc said, wiping his mouth, leaping from his seat. “Hello, Brown Residence?”

Marty watched Doc's expression shift as a high voice emerged over the line. _Who is it?_ he mouthed.

Doc covered the mouthpiece and responded, _Your mother_. “Of course,” he continued aloud, his smile melancholy and forced. “It's kind of you to want to see him off, but it looks as if he'll be staying longer than he'd initially planned.” He held the phone out to Marty, eyebrows raised.

Reluctantly, Marty got up and took the phone away from him, making _damn_ sure their hands brushed in the process. “Ah, _hey_ ,” he said, swallowing the remnant of some bacon. “Lorraine! Great to hear your voice. How's everything been?”

“Oh, Marty!” Lorraine exclaimed, surprised at the abrupt shift in speaker. “Your, um, your—Doc—is so kind. George will be over the _moon_ to know you're still around. He was sad to see you go, too.” She paused just long enough to collect herself. “We'd really like to see you,” she said.

“Hey, I, _ah_...” Marty floundered, glancing at Doc. “I'd like that. What were you thinking?”

“We could meet up at Lou's tonight,” Lorraine suggested. “The three of us. Or—no, that's awfully rude of me,” she amended, reverting to the good-hostess version of herself that Marty recognized from 1985. “You should bring Doc along! He must've been so awfully lonely for so long, and this town...” She trailed off, a tell-tale trace of guilt seeping into her tone. “This town hasn't been kind to him.”

“Hey, that's a really good idea,” Marty said, touched on Doc's behalf. “Just let me run it past him.”

Doc made a violent hold-off kind of gesture that might have equated to _No, what are you doing_ , but Marty wasn't about to pass up the chance at what was essentially a double date. It was worth the risk.

“Doc,” he said, not bothering to cover the mouthpiece, tempted to laugh as Copernicus's ears perked, “you and me, George and Lorraine. Lou's Diner at six. You get dibs on the jukebox. How about it?”

Doc let his hands drop to the table, eyes wary, but Marty knew he'd won. “Tell her I'd be delighted.”

“I'm so _glad_ ,” bubbled Lorraine, before Marty could even relay the message. “We owe you.”

“Nah, you guys don't owe me anything,” Marty reassured her. “Just bring your charming selves.”

“I'd better call George,” Lorraine said, tapping her fingernails excitedly along the mouthpiece of the phone like Marty had seen her do hundreds of times. “He'll be so pleased. He's writing a new story.”

“We'll see you later,” Marty replied, reaching for the receiver. “Don't feel like you have to dress up or—”

The line clicked dead before Marty could hang up. Doc was giving him a look roughly equivalent to the one he'd been wearing during the majority of Lorraine's intrusion on them the previous week.

“The more socially entrenched here you become,” he said, “the more difficult it'll be for you to go back.”

“We don't even know if I _can_ go back,” Marty pointed out. “Anyway, I thought you liked having me?”

“Far more than I ought,” Doc said, getting up, remainder of his orange juice in hand. “I'm going to—”

“Jesus, Doc,” Marty said, dashing over to grab him before the impulse passed. “Give it a rest, huh?”

Doc glanced briefly at Marty's hand on his forearm. “Fine, Future Boy. What did you have in mind?”

Marty steered Doc back into his chair, at which Copernicus barked happily. “More coffee and books.”

Between literary conversation and innocuous-enough television viewing, by the time five-thirty rolled around, Marty had Doc in a relaxed enough state to even be _cheerful_ at the prospect of getting out of the house. He realized that he was still in nothing but a bathrobe; the fact that it hadn't gotten in the way of conversation was oddly reassuring. Mildly chagrined, he excused himself for a shower.

In retrospect, getting cleaned up to that extent _might_ have been a mistake. His thoughts turned so quickly to imagining that his hand on himself was Doc's that the resulting orgasm left him weak-kneed and shivering under the hot water.

Doc seemed concerned when Marty finally trailed downstairs. “Are you all right? We'll be late if—”

“I'm fine,” Marty reassured him, hunting for his borrowed Chuck Taylors with Copernicus's help. The fact he'd also been able to borrow Doc's black-and-white dress shoes for the dance was an absolute _hoot_. “We can get outta here whenever you're ready, just let me get my, _ah_ —your shoes on.”

“Keep them,” Doc said, waving his hand. “I can get another pair. Unless they're _too_ loose on you.”

“Not so bad I can't stand 'em,” said Marty, grinning, tying the laces. “How 'bout you go start the car?”

The drive to Lou's was suffused with a tension not unlike the one they'd experienced on their drive home from the Town Theater. This time, Doc didn't act like Marty taking his hand was anything out of the ordinary. Marty squeezed it and let go when the time came for Doc to park the car.

“It's gonna be fine, Doc,” Marty reassured him, coming around the car to fall in step with him as they crossed the street. “I have the feeling you'd stay friends with these two whether I stick around or not. They're fascinating people to hang out with.”

“As you've probably noticed, I'm not in the habit of keeping people close,” said Doc, tone ambivalent.

“I know, I know,” said Marty, holding the diner door for him. “Makes me realize how good I've got it.”

Lorraine and George were already inside, staked out at one of the window tables. As she spotted them, Lorraine waved, gesturing them over. Marty watched as the beginnings of a smile twitched at the corner of Doc's mouth, but whether it was in reaction to what he'd said or a response to Lorraine's enthusiasm, he wasn't sure. Doc slid into the booth. Marty followed, ending up across from Lorraine.

“It's selfish of me,” said Lorraine, grabbing Marty's hands across the table, “but I'd hate to see you go.” She squeezed them and let go, picking up the menu in front of her. “What changed your mind?”

“Doc did,” he said, giving Doc and George the side-eye; unsurprisingly, Doc was already quizzing George about his writing activities. “And I've, well...kinda got nowhere else to go. It's a long story.”

“You did seem lost when you first got here,” agreed Lorraine, catching Goldie's eye, “but not anymore.” She gave Goldie an earnest smile as he strode up with pad in hand. “I'm dying for a malt.”

“One malt for the young lady, comin' right up,” said Goldie, turning to Marty, breaking into a grin when he recognized him. “Hey, I know _you_. Gave Tannen the what-for last time you were around, just like George here gave it to him Saturday night. What'll it be for our heroes of the hour?”

“I'll have the same,” said Marty, abashed, not feeling particularly picky, not when he was with three of his favorite people in the world. “Honestly, it was nothing. He had it coming. Didn't he, George?”

George blinked in comical surprise, whipping his head to face Marty. “What? Biff did what, now?”

“Never you mind,” replied Goldie, jotting Lorraine's and Marty's drink orders. “Chocolate milk?”

“No, I want some coffee,” said George, fiddling with his napkin-wrapped silverware. “I need fuel.”

“Writing's thirsty business,” Doc agreed, chivalrously taking heat away from the embarrassed young man. “I'll have whatever Marty's having, but with none of that whipped-cream-and-cherry business.”

“Man after my own heart, no frills,” said Goldie, swaying to the beat of the music as he turned on his heel. “I'll have these up in a flash and be back to take food orders. Pleasure seein' you all again.”

“Goldie's going to night school and getting into politics,” said Marty, matter-of-factly. “As much as I enjoy talking to him in here, I hope he gets out pretty soon. He could do this town a lot of good.”

“Unquestionably,” Doc agreed. “I haven't been happy with any of our mayoral candidates in _years_.”

Marty was startled at that, as he hadn't even mentioned to Doc that he'd accidentally made the suggestion to Goldie on his first full day in town. “I'm glad you see in him what I see in him.”

Lorraine adjusted her barrette, eyebrows knit. “I'd worry for his safety, is all. People are cruel.”

“People can _change_ ,” said George, with startling conviction. “The fact we're sitting here with Doc Brown and a guy who's still almost a total stranger speaks volumes to that, don't you think?”

“History can change, too,” Marty agreed gladly, eyeing Doc, “but people have to change _first_.”

From that point on, science fiction dominated so much of the conversation that Marty and Lorraine, once they'd finished their drinks and most of their dinner, ended up next to the jukebox with a palmful of change between them. Marty shoved in a few coins and watched Lorraine hit a sequence of buttons. Doc didn't even seem to care that he wasn't in control of the music as Marty had promised.

“So,” said Lorraine, as the song just ending transitioned into _Earth Angel_ , “you've got to tell me what's going on. Is Doc _really_ your uncle?”

Marty was so taken aback by the question that he couldn't respond. Was this some kind of motherly instinct manifesting way, _way_ ahead of schedule, or was Lorraine just a gossip? The latter possibility gave him pause. He couldn't have the whole town finding out.

Lorraine put an arm around his shoulders, leaning hard into the curvature of the jukebox, tugging him in just like he'd seen her do with one of her girlfriends from school. “I know I was keen on you and all, but I hope you know it's not like that anymore. I've got George. Besides, the more I thought about how terrified you guys looked the other afternoon, I felt like such a...” She paused, fixing Marty with a look that was equal parts pitying and sympathetic. “I put you on the spot, is what I mean. You didn't sound convinced about Doc being your uncle even when _you_ said it, so why don't we just shoo the elephant out of the room. I'm not totally sheltered, you know. My uncle's got a gentleman-friend.”

Marty made a sound that was not-quite-squeak, not-quite-sigh. He'd never explicitly understood what all the evasive talk about his late, Great-Uncle Charles had meant until now. “ _Is_ —is that so?” he asked, recovering his composure. "Huh."

Lorraine nodded firmly, hugging Marty a little tighter. “Mother says it's rude to make it anybody's business but theirs, but Lord knows you'd have to be a total _square_ not to see it.” Her expression softened again as she met Marty's questioning gaze. “I'm sorry I kissed you.”

Marty raked one hand through his hair, in utter disbelief that he was having _this conversation_ with his mother at a point in time when she seemed to be infinitely more receptive of the possibility than she might've proved in 1985. “It's, _ah_...in the past. Don't sweat it. We all make mistakes.”

“I just want to make sure you're not making one,” Lorraine said hesitantly. “He seems...he's _nice_ , but he's...” She spread her hands against the glass, squinting down at the handful of song-titles she'd rejected. “A little old for you, maybe?”

“He's thirty-five,” said Marty, puzzled, “but what does that matter? Redheads get the short end of the stick when it comes to going gray, so you'd better look out.” He teasingly ruffled Lorraine's hair. “Well, you're more auburn.”

“I guess you _are_ almost eighteen,” said Lorraine. “Just like me and George. Never mind. Do what you want.” She fixed the damage Marty had done to her barrette. “Say— _do_ you?” she asked, winking at him, her expression turning suggestive.

“God, I've been _trying_ ,” said Marty, laughing, finding it a sheer a relief to confide in someone.

“I won't give you any advice on flirting, because heaven knows you don't need it,” said Lorraine, letting go of Marty, shimmying her way back from the jukebox as a more upbeat tune began to play. “Just look at those eyes of yours!” she said, laughing with him. “Won't you dance with me?”

Fortunately, both George and Doc took the ensuing bout of silliness with equally good humor. Goldie joined Lorraine and Marty on their impromptu dance-floor, and Lou was glowering at all three of them by the end of it. Once they'd been shooed back to counter and table respectively, George announced that he couldn't possibly eat another bite. He shot Lorraine a meaningful glance.

“Of course,” said Doc, tugging his wallet out of his back pocket. “You should be getting home, it's almost nine. Please leave the tab to me; Marty and I will settle up. Thanks for a marvelous evening.”

“Seriously, what he said,” Marty agreed, rising to kiss Lorraine's cheek and shake George's hand as they shuffled out of the booth. “You crazy kids should get outta here. Go have some more fun.”

“You _do_ have a motherly way about you, Marty,” Lorraine teased. “Don't be a stranger?”

George wore an apologetic look on Lorraine's behalf, but Marty waved him off. “Wouldn't dream of it.”

Once they were gone, Marty watched Doc deposit a twenty on the table. Aside from Lou and Goldie, they were the only two people left in the place. He touched Doc's arm, startling Doc out of his reverie.

“Let's get outta here,” Marty said, steering him toward the door. “Copernicus is probably hungry.”

The drive home was quiet, but Marty's heart-rate was through the roof by the time they got back to the Estate. Doc had taken his hand on the seat between them as soon as he'd safely pulled the Packard out into the street, and he'd restlessly laced and re-laced his fingers with Marty's the whole way home. Doc opening the passenger-side door for Marty like he'd done on Monday was just about the last straw.

“Hey, Doc,” Marty said, grabbing Doc's wrist once he'd closed the door, preventing him from making an automatic bee-line up to the house. “Hang on a second. There's nobody around, all right?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Doc asked, too startled to protest when Marty tugged him down into a kiss. His hands flew to Marty's shoulders, pulling him close, deepening the kiss with a choked sound before pulling away. His breathing was high and shallow, his eyes haunted.

“Will you please _listen_ to me?” Marty pleaded, chasing Doc as he fled up the walkway. “I'm trying to get you to square with all the shit we're happy enough to _do_ , but not talk about, okay?”

“Fine, then,” Doc snapped, fumbling with his keys, getting the front door open on his third try. “I've been emotionally compromised from the very _moment_ you walked into my life. Do you think I'm proud of that?” he challenged, throwing the door open wide, waiting until Marty had stepped inside. “How ill does it reflect, Marty, that a man who values rationalism and science above all else—”

“Has feelings?” Marty cut in, struggling out of his shoes, almost tripping in the process. “Is _human_?”

Doc gave Marty a despairing look as he tossed the Chucks aside. “No,” he said quietly. “That's not...”

“Then what is it, Doc?” Marty demanded, throwing his arms wide. “All the signals I'm getting from you are saying _all systems go_ , but any time the action starts to get heavy, you back down!”

Doc shook his head, tormented, as if he couldn't form words. “You might not even be _here_ a month from now, let alone in my future. I'm torn between having you in the short term and acknowledging the slim chance I might have to let you go. I can't permit us to take actions we might—”

“I don't know about you, Doc,” said Marty, “but what _I'll_ regret is if we never put it to the test.”

Doc raked one hand through his hair in frustration, an exact mirror of the gesture Lorraine had inspired in Marty earlier that evening. “Do you think I'm insensible to the logic of that statement? Any good scientist would...” He started to pace, shaking his head wildly. “Please understand that this is difficult for me. Of _course_ I've considered it. I wouldn't have made the allowances I've made if...”

“If you're not ready, that's fine,” said Marty, elated to have made progress, “but, for God's sake, say it.”

Doc stopped dead in his tracks, staring at Marty with such fearful longing that Marty wondered if this was it, the breaking point, the _in_ he'd been waiting for. Instead of saying something useful, Doc strode past Marty and dashed up the stairs, ignoring Copernicus's questioning whine.

“C'mon, boy,” Marty sighed, snapping his fingers until the dog followed him. “It's okay. I'll feed you.”

Leaving a happily-crunching Copernicus behind him in the kitchen, Marty stalked upstairs nearly as angry as he'd been that morning. He was being as transparent as possible with Doc, and what was Doc giving him in return? Riddles in the form of shoulder-brushes and hand-holding.

Marty marched into the guest bedroom, not even bothering to close the door behind him. He stripped down to nothing, leaving his clothes where they fell. He grabbed the bathrobe off the foot of his bed, shrugging into it as he made his way up the hall, making a point of not belting it shut. 

If Doc was having issues with words, then he'd have to stick with actions. And even if he had to conduct this experiment alone, he was going to get an answer. Every other gesture he'd attempted had flopped spectacularly, so only _this_ was left.

Doc's bedroom door wasn't locked. The door wasn't even properly closed; it swung inward to darkness at Marty's slightest touch, admitting no light from the dim hall behind him. Marty could hear Doc's breath in the darkness, as labored as it had been after the kiss. He found the edge of the bed by feeling his way from the night-stand, grateful he'd seen the room in daylight. 

Marty slipped under the covers, feeling his way to Doc in a tangle of sheets and bathrobe. He shivered at the contact, finding Doc's back warm and exposed all down his front. Doc's hand found Marty's even as he slipped an arm around Doc's waist, taking Marty's wrist in a firm, warning grip.

“Maybe I'm being selfish, Doc,” Marty whispered, pressing a kiss against Doc's neck, “but so are you.” He closed his eyes, nuzzling Doc's hair at the thought he might never get another chance. Pressed against the small of Doc's back, he was half-hard. There was nothing he could do to hide it.

Unmoving, Doc stroked Marty's arm from wrist to elbow while Marty grazed his fingertips along Doc's chest. “For the moment, until I'm utterly certain,” he replied harshly, “I need more time.”

Marty nodded against Doc's shoulder blade, feeling like an utter failure. “I know,” he sighed, and left.


	5. Chapter 5

**November 20, 1955**

Hands down, Marty had never passed a more miserable Friday and Saturday in his _life_.

Two days in which he'd seen neither hide, nor hair of Doc had frayed his nerves to an entirely new kind of breaking point. He'd been able to tell from the eerie glow of the garage windows on Friday evening that _that_ was the place to which Doc had presumably retreated early Friday morning. He'd neglected to take Copernicus with him, which meant that Marty had been stuck with a lapful of fussy puppy nearly every moment he'd spent seated on the sofa watching dismal reruns.

By Saturday evening, Marty had grown entirely disenchanted with _Howdy Doody_ , _The Honeymooners_ , and the handful of insipid soap operas and game shows he'd run across. He'd wandered back upstairs with Copernicus in his arms, passing up the guest bedroom in favor of Doc's. Since Doc had insisted on sulking in the garage, why _shouldn't_ Marty take refuge there? 

Copernicus had curled up at the foot of the bed, peering up at Marty with concerned, questioning eyes as Marty, hugging Doc's spare pillow to his chest, settled in for the night. He'd fallen asleep in no time.

Now, blinking up at Doc's ceiling with bright Sunday-morning rays blinding him, he couldn't help but wonder if he really _was_ the problem in this scenario. He'd done nothing but push Doc in response to Doc's decorous advances, and that—frankly, that _did_ make him an asshole.

Marty rolled out of bed, still in his clothes, and wandered across the hall to the bathroom. It was only once he'd shut the bathroom door behind him and begun to undress that he realized Copernicus had no longer been present. He puzzled over what that might mean, flinching as the initial burst of freezing water hit him. Doc wasn't in the habit of letting the dog sleep in his bed. Perhaps Copernicus had fled to his basket so as not to get caught. Marty took the quickest, chilliest shower of his life.

“Here, boy,” he called, whistling, damp-haired and dressed as he crept down the stairs. “Copernicus!”

The dog whimpered where it lay, fur brushing against the elegant instep of Doc's left foot, on the sofa.

“Aw, _jeez_ ,” Marty whispered, taking in the scene of Doc curled on his side with his robe tugged over him like a blanket, his right foot hanging off the edge. “Why didn't you just take _my_ bed?”

Copernicus raised his head, yawning, peering at Marty inquisitively. Doc slept on, dead to the world.

 _Leave it to me, Doc,_ thought Marty, toeing into Doc's Chucks, opening the front door. _I'll have a look at it, see if I can't spot what's stumping you. It's worked in the...well, in the future._

The morning breeze was fresh and cold, making the sunlight seem that much more deceptively cheerful. Marty shoved his hands in his pockets, dashing the rest of the way to the garage, hoping Doc hadn't locked the door. The knob gave on first twist; what awaited him inside was chaos.

Doc had, seemingly, cycled through tinkering with every project currently in progress—from the mind-reading gear to the mechanized chess game to the DeLorean. Marty approached the time machine with a sense of foreboding, throwing back the tarp. He popped the hood, staring at the mangled innards in shock. He'd imagined that this many days of fiddling would've resulted in it looking better, not _worse_.

He could only run his fingers over the tangle of fraying, disconnected wires for so long before he realized that this wasn't like back in 1985, not in the _least_. Doc was winging it every bit as much as he was, and it was startlingly obvious now that they had, perhaps, flat-out gotten lucky when it had come to risking the lightning. The trick was, though, that they'd missed it. _He'd_ missed it.

Marty had blown Doc's one chance to see his dream become a reality. If he was stuck, he deserved it.

“I don't blame you for punishing me like this,” he sighed, closing the hood, pulling the tarp back into place. “Hell, after what I've managed to screw up for you, I ought to be punishing me, too.” He hopped up on the hood of the car, feeling the chassis give slightly beneath his weight.

The sound of footsteps took Marty off-guard. He'd been so intent that he hadn't heard the door open.

“You deserve nothing of the kind,” said Doc, stepping in front of Marty still barefoot. He tilted Marty's chin upward, the brush of his fingertips so delicate that Marty's breath caught. “Never believe it.”

Those last few words sent a shiver down Marty's spine, as if they were an echo of something he'd heard before—on the silver screen, on the Shakespearean stage, _somewhere_. Marty took hold of Doc's wrist so that he couldn't pull his hand away, guiding Doc's hand up to his cheek. Doc's other hand came up to frame Marty's face in parallel, no coaxing necessary. Marty sighed.

“But I ruined it for you, Doc. That lightning-strike was your chance to see actual proof that your time machine works, and I fucking _blew_ it. And no matter how much I—” he swallowed, realizing there was one word he could've used from the beginning that might've spared them so much of this circling “—love you, Doc, or want you, or _any_ of that, it was wrong of me to—”

“It was equally wrong of me not to take your wishes into account,” said Doc, cutting him off. “It was wrong of me to assume I know better than you do what's best for you, what you're capable of squaring with,” he continued, thumbs carefully tracing Marty's cheekbones. “If indeed you're stuck here, Marty, you already know how much I've come to care for you, how gladly I'd keep...”

“Then _keep_ me, Doc!” Marty replied, shaking him. “No matter how long I'm here, got it?”

Doc nodded, reading the intent in Marty's upturned face with such ease that it stole Marty's breath. He used the leverage of his palms cradling Marty's jaw to ease them into a kiss, his lips parting against Marty's with so little hesitation that the first bold brush of his tongue was _dizzying_.

“Oh _God_ ,” Marty moaned, wrapping his arms around Doc's shoulders, pulling Doc in with such force that he almost toppled them over sideways on the hood of the car. Doc chuckled against Marty's mouth, sound equally as startling as the willingness of the action itself, steadying them.

“I owe you an apology for a couple of nights ago,” Doc explained as they finally eased apart. “And the night before that, and several nights before _that_ ,” he added, both palms shifting from where they'd come to rest on the tarp-covered hood to brace on Marty's thighs. “If I might...”

“You might do damned near _anything_ , Doc,” Marty croaked, burying his face against Doc's neck, clinging to him, “and I'd be fine with it. How much more clearly do I have to spell that out?”

“I confess that your turning up in my bed like that was something of a hint,” Doc agreed, kissing the side of Marty's neck with reverent intent, his hands shifting again, this time coming to rest against Marty's chest. He undid several buttons in a row with shaking fingers, pausing to kiss Marty again before finishing the task. “Marty,” he breathed, taking hold of the open sides of Marty's shirt, leaning forward to press his lips against Marty's chest as he dropped to a sitting position, “do you want—?”

Marty's capacity for speech was already somewhere south of functional, but he managed a fierce nod.

“Then let's get these off you,” said Doc, kindly, unfastening the button-fly of Marty's jeans. He wasn't doing a great job of masking his nervousness, especially not given the concerned look in his eyes, but Marty was so far gone on what was about to happen that he didn't give two _shits_ about how awkward it was probably going to be. “That's fine,” Doc continued, tugging at them. “Just lift up...”

Marty wanted to lie back on the tarp about as badly as he wanted to watch, but watching won out. He was sure there'd come a time when he'd question how he'd come to be naked from the waist down with his shirt hanging open while Doc regarded him with gentle concern from the floor of the garage even while he brushed his lips experimentally against Marty's erection, but today was _not_ that day.

Doc threaded the fingers of his left hand with the fingers of Marty's right, working his right hand carefully beneath Marty's left thigh. “Tell me if this will work,” he said, pressing an almost-apologetic kiss against Marty's belly. “Sadly, as we've established, I'm no great shakes at mind-reading with or _without_ mechanical aid. And I'm not the best at speaking what's on my mind, either.”

“Doc,” Marty gasped, steadying himself with his left hand braced back against the hood, “if you don't shut the hell up and— _oh_.” Whatever he'd been about to say went the way of those wires beneath the hood, blissfully beyond recognition, as Doc lapped at him with exacting care.

That lasted for all of thirty seconds before Marty began to shake, began to beg; too close, too _close_. He couldn't let it end like this, could he, what when they'd scarcely gotten _started_. How could Doc even stand his indecisiveness?

“ _Shhh_ , Marty,” Doc whispered, eyes hazy, up on his knees with his arms around Marty in a heartbeat. “If it's too much, if it isn't what you expected, just...” He breathed in, steeling himself, as if determined to properly articulate himself this time. “Tell me what you want.”

“It was just _great_ , Doc,” Marty breathed raggedly, the tension in his body ratcheting down from the peak it had nearly hit too soon. “ _Too_ great, even. It's just...” He curled forward, huffing against Doc's shoulder, the exhalation almost a giggle. “I wanna make you feel like that, too.”

“I could tell you a thing or two about how I feel right now,” replied Doc, his tone low and appreciative.

“I know there's crap all over it, but haven't you got that old spare bed over in the corner?” Marty asked.

“There's nothing all over it at the moment, seeing as I've slept in it these past couple nights,” said Doc, wryly, getting to his feet with the kind of difficulty that told Marty _exactly_ what state he was in.

“Except last night?” Marty asked, sliding shakily off the hood of the car, grateful of Doc's steadying hands at his waist. “You and Copernicus made an adorable picture on the sofa. Christmas-card stuff.”

“Come on, Future Boy,” Doc chided, taking Marty's hand, leading him past the clutter. “Over here.”

Marty decided quickly that he enjoyed having their positions reversed, hungrily watching Doc shiver as it was _his_ hands pushing Doc's dressing-gown back and off Doc's shoulders, _his_ fingertips struggling with the knot in Doc's tie and the buttons of Doc's shirt. He shed his own as Doc impatiently got rid of his trousers and undershorts, leaving them puddled on the floor.

“Jeez, Doc,” Marty sighed, kissing Doc's collarbone as Doc tugged him forward, “you're so—”

“If you were about to say _heavy_ , then I object,” said Doc, wryly, twisting sideways onto the mattress, tugging Marty along with him. The impact of skin against skin was instantaneous, _electric_. “But if you were going to say...”

Marty pressed up against him, front to front this time, trembling. He didn't want words, not anymore.

“It's fine,” Doc whispered, stroking Marty's hair, holding him close as they moved. “It doesn't matter.”

“Hey, maybe if...” Marty rolled Doc over on his back, squirmed around till he was straddling Doc with both of them in hand and Doc blinking rapidly up at him like _he_ was the one losing his mind.

“ _Precisely_ ,” Doc gasped, thrusting up against Marty's weight with each quick tug of Marty's fist.

At that, Marty felt his frayed nerve-endings ignite. This time, there was no dodging the explosion.

Even as unhinged as he felt in the shaking, sticky come-down, Marty knew that what he'd want to remember most was how his name sounded on Doc's lips. Just a fraction of a second behind him, Doc was going, going, _gone_. Marty kissed Doc through it, stroking Doc's damp hair.

They lay still against each other for a long time, Marty's chin tucked over Doc's shoulder, his face buried in the pillow as Doc's hands carefully mapped the length of Marty's spine. Marty was guessing that if _he_ had a cramp in his hip-joint and desperately needed to stretch his legs, he could only _imagine_ how Doc must feel with Marty's weight crushing the breath out of him.

It took a few moments for Marty to realize that Doc was still shaking, although it seemed to be centered more in his ribcage than in any other part of him, and that was concerning. “Doc?” he ventured, lifting his head to find that Doc had squeezed his eyes shut. Were those _tears_?

“What happens if I manage to successfully return you to 1985?” Doc asked despairingly. “What then?”

“I'll come back to you, Doc,” Marty said, kissing the healed cut on Doc's forehead. “I always do.”


End file.
